Doors Open

by Ian Rankin

  Calloway was advancing slowly on Westie again. ‘You saying it’s all down to your girlfriend, then? How is Alice, by the way?’

  Westie’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Calloway took a deep breath. ‘Your dear, sweet little Alice sent a warning to my friend Mike Mackenzie. She says you want an extra twenty K on top, either that or another painting. According to her, you feel cheated. Is that right, Westie? Do you feel hard done by?’ But the student’s powers of speech had deserted him.

  ‘Now,’ Calloway went on, seemingly satisfied by this reaction, ‘how do you suppose she got Mike’s mobile number? Want to go fifty-fifty or ask the audience? No, because she got it from you, Westie. She got it from you . . .’ A forefinger stabbed Westie in the chest. It felt like the heft of a blade, the barrel of a gun. Calloway had leaned forward from the waist so he was eye to eye with the student. ‘Unless you can come up with some other highly convincing explanation.’ Spittle hit Westie’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it away until Calloway had started another circuit of the room, taking care not to trip over the various cables. ‘These are dangerous times, Pretty Boy,’ he was saying. ‘People get a bit frantic, a bit crazy.’

  ‘I didn’t know the silly cow had sent that text!’

  ‘But you knew she was thinking about it, didn’t you? You knew it was a text, even though I never mentioned the fact.’ Calloway had turned and was closing in on Westie again. His hands had emerged from his pockets. They were bunched into fists. ‘The pair of you talked it over, maybe tweaked the wording till you’d got it just right . . .’

  ‘We only thought . . .’

  The punch hit Westie in the stomach and sent him backwards until he hit the wall, either side of a framed canvas. Calloway had followed up with a hand around the student’s throat.

  ‘It’s good that we’re getting to know one another,’ he spat, ‘because you’re going to do something for me. Two things, in fact. For one, persuade your bony-arsed girlfriend that nobody’s getting shafted around here except her.’

  Westie, eyes bulging, had started to nod as best he could. Calloway released his grip and the young man collapsed to his knees, coughing a string of phlegm from his mouth. Calloway crouched down in front of him, a hand resting on either shoulder.

  ‘Is that a deal?’ he asked.

  ‘No bother, Mr Calloway,’ Westie managed to gasp. ‘I’m on that straight away.’ He managed to swallow. ‘And what’s the second thing?’

  ‘The second thing is this, Westie - we’re going to be a team, you and me.’ Calloway was nodding as if to reinforce the point.

  ‘A team?’ Westie’s ears were ringing and his mouth felt full of sand. There was juice in a carton on the floor next to him, but he didn’t think now was the right time for a refreshment break.

  ‘Looks like those forgeries of yours did the business, young Westie,’ Calloway was telling him. ‘In my book, that means you know what you’re up to. Quick turnaround, too, from what I’m told. So now you’re going to make me a few more.’

  ‘More copies?’

  Calloway nodded again. ‘Plenty more paintings in that warehouse. ’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Don’t fret.’ The gangster offered a smile. ‘We’re not going to turn the place over again - do I really look that thick?’

  ‘So you want them for yourself?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  Westie felt himself relax a little. ‘Sure, Mr Calloway, I can do that. After all, what’s the difference between hanging a fake on your wall and owning the real thing?’

  ‘If the fake’s perfect, no difference at all.’ Calloway helped Westie back up on to his feet, brushing dust from his shoulders.

  ‘Do you have anything particular in mind?’ Westie asked. ‘Doesn’t have to be from the warehouse - I can do you a Mona Lisa if you like.’

  ‘No, Westie, not the Mona Lisa. These have to be paintings that are kept locked away from the public gaze.’

  ‘How many are we talking about?’

  ‘Couple of dozen should do it.’

  Westie puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of work.’

  Calloway’s face tightened. ‘You’re forgetting - you’ve a lot of making up to do after that little stunt Alice tried to pull.’

  Westie raised his hands in surrender. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Not for you, Mr Calloway. I’m flattered you think I’d be good enough.’ Watching the gangster’s features relax again, he decided it was safe to ask a question. ‘By the way, which painting did you get from the raid?’

  ‘It’s by some guy called Utterson - Dusk on Rannoch Moor. How about you?’

  ‘A DeRasse,’ Westie was able to say, despite the sudden queasy surge in his gut.

  ‘Never heard of him.’ Calloway’s hands still rested on Westie’s shoulders. ‘Any good, is he?’

  Westie cleared his throat. ‘Not bad. Experimental . . . style of Jasper Johns but a bit hipper . . . Do you want to swap?’

  The gangster just laughed, as though Westie had been making a joke. Westie tried smiling back, maintaining the illusion while his brain screamed.

  The Utterson! Why did it have to be the bloody Utterson?

  26

  Allan Cruikshank was in his office at First Caledonian Bank’s HQ on the corner of George Street and St Andrew’s Square. The building was becoming cramped, and being Grade I listed there was little way to renovate it to accommodate the twenty-first century. Allan’s office was half its original size, subdivided by means of a partition wall. The only view from his remaining window was of a ghastly seventies office block to the rear of the building. Along with everyone else at his level, Allan worked to monthly targets. His roster of High Net Worth clients had been underperforming of late, and he should have been making a few calls, maybe arranging lunches or pre-dinner drinks, the better to talk them into sticking some more of their money the bank’s way. He knew that, if asked, Mike Mackenzie would come on board as a client, but then they would cease to be just friends; the transaction would sit between them, changing everything.

  But then who was Allan kidding? They were no longer ‘just friends’. They’d pulled off a heist together, and Allan now had something he’d always wanted - at least theoretically. He owned two paintings that First Caledonian, despite its muscle, its own extensive portfolio of art, and its own curator, could never possess.

  And he hated the fact. He didn’t think it was simple cowardice that had convinced him to hand the paintings over to Mike for safe keeping. It was just that the Coultons didn’t mean anything to him. He realised he’d have been as happy with Westie’s reproductions. And at least he could have displayed those . . . His fingers drifted over a nick on his chin. He’d been shaving this morning, not really concentrating. Hadn’t slept much either, not since Saturday. He tossed and turned and imagined himself in a police cell, a court-room, a prison.

  ‘You were a bloody fool, Allan,’ he said out loud. Not that any of it had been his idea, not really. Gissing had come up with the original notion, and Mike had fleshed it out. Without Mike as a conduit to Chib Calloway, they’d probably never have gone ahead with it. Allan’s role had been secondary, negligible. Christ Almighty, he sounded as if he was explaining himself to the prosecutor.

  When the alarm bell sounded, he jolted upright. But it was only the phone: the buzzer signalling an internal call. He picked it up.

  ‘Allan Cruikshank speaking,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Front desk, Mr Cruikshank. There’s a gentleman here to see you.’ Allan’s appointment diary was open in front of him, empty till mid-afternoon. He knew what the receptionist was going to say, but still felt a rush of cold at her words.

  ‘He’s with the police - Detective Inspector Ransome. Shall I send him up?’

  ‘Can you tell him I’m in the middle of a meeting?’ Allan waited while his message was relayed.

  ‘He says he’s happy to wait,’ the rece
ptionist trilled, ‘and he’ll only need five minutes of your time.’

  ‘Then tell him to wait there in the lobby. I’ll be another quarter of an hour or so.’ Allan slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. The window looked inviting: four floors to the waiting roadway and oblivion. But he knew it only opened an inch and a half - nobody at First Clay wanted an accident. If he exited his office and walked towards the lifts, there was a stairwell for use in a fire. He didn’t know where it would bring him out, though . . . maybe into the very lobby where his nemesis was waiting.

  ‘Hell and damnation,’ he muttered, picking up the phone again. Mike wasn’t answering at home, so Allan tried his mobile. This time he got through.

  ‘Hello?’ the voice said.

  ‘That bloody detective’s here,’ Allan blurted out. ‘Wants to talk to me. He knows, Mike. He knows. You’d better get yourself over here.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  In horror, Allan studied the display. He’d transposed two digits of Mike’s number! He ended the call, squeezed shut his eyes, and felt like weeping. Eventually, he took a deep breath and tried again, making sure this time that it was Mike who answered.

  ‘It’s got to be about the heist, Mike,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to help me.’

  ‘By rushing over there?’ Mike asked after a lengthy pause. ‘And what message would that send, Allan? You’ve got to brazen it out.’

  ‘Why the hell is he here? Who’s been talking?’

  ‘He’s fishing, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  ‘We won’t know anything until you’ve talked to him. Have you got something you can take to calm down?’

  ‘Maybe if someone whacked me with a hammer . . .’ As the words left Allan’s mouth, he regretted them. He didn’t want Mike getting ideas, ideas he might take to his new best friend - Chib Calloway. Allan swallowed hard and took a nice deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine, Mike. Sorry if I overreacted.’

  ‘Call me when you’re done with him.’ Mike’s voice was all steel.

  ‘Always supposing I’m allowed one phone call.’

  The joke was weak, but Mike laughed anyway. ‘Just be yourself, Allan. You’re a deal-maker, remember that. And Ransome’s not even part of the official investigation. As far as I can tell, he’s been on Chib’s case. He’s probably sniffing around anyone who knows him.’

  ‘But how does he know?’

  ‘There’s a chance he saw us at the auction, and maybe at the Shining Star afterwards.’

  ‘So he knows we’re interested in art and drinking . . .’

  ‘You can bet I’ll be on his list, too. But you’ve barely met Chib, Allan - and that’s all you need to tell him.’

  ‘Okay,’ Allan agreed. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  ‘Call me straight after.’

  ‘Sure,’ Allan put the receiver down, then picked it up again and spoke to his secretary, asked her to head down to reception in a couple of minutes and sign in a Mr Ransome. He didn’t bother saying who Ransome was. Then again, she’d know by day’s end - the receptionists and secretaries were as thick as thieves. Allan spent the time trying to compose himself. He pulled some paperwork from his drawer and spread it across the desk. Switched on the TV to the stock market screen. By the time the knock came, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, calculator to hand, jacket draped over the back of his executive chair.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  Ransome was younger than he’d expected, and dapper with it. He’d known HNWs with less style.

  ‘Nice place to work,’ was the detective’s opening gambit. Allan had stood up long enough to shake hands across the desk. He gestured for Ransome to sit down. ‘Lot of expensive-looking art on the walls,’ Ransome continued. ‘Down in the lobby . . . all along the corridors . . .’

  ‘First Caledonian has its own curator,’ Allan informed him. ‘Our portfolio is worth in excess of twenty million.’

  Ransome gave a whistle. ‘Do they ever let the staff borrow something for a couple of nights?’

  ‘Not at my lowly level of management.’ Allan attempted a self-deprecating smile. ‘What’s this all about, Inspector? I admit I’m intrigued.’

  ‘You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Cruikshank. The hoops I’ve had to go through . . .’ The detective shook his head slowly. ‘All I had was your name, you see. That and the name of your bank . . . Ever had any trouble with money-laundering?’

  ‘Certainly not - the regulations make sure of that.’

  ‘A banker would be a useful contact, though, wouldn’t he? If you did want to launder money.’

  ‘Quite the opposite. As I say, we’re obliged by law to report unusual levels of activity to the authorities.’

  Ransome didn’t seem particularly interested in any of Allan’s answers. Nevertheless, the questions kept coming. ‘I understand you work with High Net Worth individuals, Mr Cruikshank?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is Michael Mackenzie a client?’

  ‘That comes under the heading of privileged information, Inspector. Has something happened to Mike?’

  ‘You do know him, then?’

  ‘We’ve been friends for over a year.’

  ‘And Charles Calloway?’ Ransome broke off. ‘Sorry . . . you probably know him better as “Chib”.’

  ‘I really don’t know him at all - we ran into him in a wine bar one day, but that’s about it.’

  ‘This would be the Shining Star wine bar? Just along the road from here?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Allan had been expecting a flipped-open notebook and pen, maybe a hulking junior colleague standing against the door like a silent sentry. But Ransome just sat here with his fingertips pressed together, one leg crossed over the other.

  ‘When you say “ran into him” . . . ?’

  ‘I mean just that. He saw us looking at him, came to the table and gave a couple of scowls and snarls.’

  ‘He’s good at that, is Calloway.’

  ‘A professional, I’d say.’

  ‘And this was just yourself and Mr Mackenzie . . . ?’

  ‘Another friend was there - Professor Robert Gissing.’

  Ransome raised an eyebrow. ‘I seem to know that name. Wasn’t he the one called in to run an eye over those paintings from the Granton heist?’

  ‘That’s him. He’s head of the College of Art.’

  Ransome gave a thoughtful nod. ‘So you didn’t speak to Chib at the auction?’

  ‘Which auction?’

  ‘The one a couple of weeks back . . . and again - funny coincidence - just along the road from here.’

  ‘I’d no idea Mr Calloway had an interest in auctions.’ Allan leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Ransome just smiled and was thoughtful again. ‘I’d really like to know what this is all about, Inspector,’

  ‘You say that Calloway came over to your table and a few words were exchanged . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So what was your friend Mackenzie doing joining Calloway at the bar, chatting and sharing a drink?’

  ‘Must have been after I left,’ Allan improvised.

  ‘Loyalty’s an admirable quality, Mr Cruikshank, when it’s not misplaced. What do you think those two would have had to talk about?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . schooldays maybe.’

  ‘Schooldays?’

  Allan licked his parched lips. ‘They were at the same school for a short time.’

  The way the detective nodded to himself told Allan that this wasn’t news to him. ‘Might start to explain why they’ve been spending so much time together recently,’ Ransome speculated. ‘I happened to see them at the National Gallery, and at that auction, and at the Shining Star. And I know they’ve been taking little drives together - sure you weren’t there with them, Mr Cruikshank?’

  ‘I can assure you I wasn’t.’

  Ransome leaned forward. ‘Well what about this, then - Calloway has been
to Mr Mackenzie’s home at Henderland Heights. What does that suggest to you, Mr Cruikshank?’

  ‘It doesn’t suggest anything to me.’

  ‘Your friend Mackenzie collects art, doesn’t he? Someone at the auction house told me as much. Then he takes a known criminal on a tour of our national collection, after which they attend an auction together, checking out the going rate for various artists. Doesn’t that begin to suggest anything to you, Mr Cruikshank?’